Crewe
by Suzi.R
Summary: In 1951, an engine with a difference visited the Railway Works at Crewe. COMPLETE.
1. Part I: The Island Of Where?

A/N: It's been a very long time since I wrote any kind of fanfiction – in fact when I looked it up, it's been nearly five years since I last wrote one, so I'm obviously going to be rusty. But this has been tearing round my brain since early December, so I decided I'd jot it down. First time ever writing any kind of Thomas & Friends fic – I can't believe I've even got the gall to post it :p

Additional Notes: I'm leaning towards TV series verse here – CGI or models, you choose – as I'm not well revised on RWS continuity; it's been a long time since I read those books :D Also, I'm going with the dateline of the book Sodor: Reading Between the Lines, placing Henry's rebuild in 1951. No weird stuff, romance or pairings etc. here either. Hope this isn't too ridiculous – please forgive me if it is. It's only a fiction. Let me know if it sucks. - Suzi.R

Part One: The Island Of…Where?

It was still very early in the morning; and, as it was already mid-December, daylight had still not shown it's face.

Sometimes I felt like I lived in a world of constant darkness, particularly in the winter months. It was dark when I left home and it was dark when I returned.

My name is Ellie Briggs, and I didn't really have a proper job at the works; it was my father who had been working there ever since his early years as an apprentice. It was his love of steam that had driven him to take a job there, and it must have been in our blood because I loved it too, and my father did everything he could to encourage this, despite my being very young and a girl to boot.

I tagged along to work with him more often than not; and although I felt shy and nervous in a huge, loud, bustling railway works, I gradually began to gather the courage to ask questions about what was happening around me, with the usual favourite childhood word being "Why?"

As I got older I was given odd jobs and miscellaneous tasks that no-one else had time to do – nothing major or important, just things that were far too tedious for the main staff to handle; delivering messages (hopefully I didn't get too many wrong), going in search of various tools and apparatus, and making what felt like vats of tea and coffee. The staff were always pleased to see me coming with the hot drinks; I don't think some of them even noticed who I was – they just saw a walking teapot.

Not that I minded any of this in the least; I far preferred being at the works, even if all I performed were unimportant odd jobs, to being at home alone or at school.

On this particularly dark, wintery morning near Christmas when I was almost sixteen, nothing seemed particularly different about the day. It was the first day of the school holidays and I was raring to go to work; I hadn't been for a while due to the upcoming exams and I'd missed the hustle and buzz of my dad's workplace.

There were always lots of locomotives at the works; those being repaired, restored and even new ones being built. Recently there'd been a lot of talks about a certain engine coming to Crewe for a major rebuild – I hadn't heard the whole story, just different bits and pieces on the grapevine, which was never very reliable, and so I hadn't really thought much of it. Different rumours I'd picked up on were that the engine was a strange hybrid of a Greasley Class A1 and a GNR C1 Atlantic, built from stolen plans and therefore completely riddled with technical faults. The only other bit of information I'd gleaned was that the engine was coming from Sodor, a little island just off the British coastline, a bit like the Isle of Wight. People talked about this as if it was something special, but up till then I had never heard of the place, and took little interest in the location.

I was interested, however, to see this strange mix-up of a steam engine, a cross-breed if you like. It was on this December morning it was due to arrive, and myself and my father were both anxious to get a look – so much so, that we set off extra early that morning. I was still in a fuggy world of sleep, but within minutes of arriving I was wide awake.

The engine was there; painted NWR green with red stripes, at first glance looking like an A1 as the rumours had suggested. From the angle I stood at, I couldn't see the condition of the engine, but as I came round from the back of the tender to the side, where my father had headed before going off to prepare for work, I could see the extent of the damage. The buffers were twisted and bent; there were various dents and exterior damage to the boiler from what was visible, the side-rods were almost indistinguishable, and some of the wheels were battered and probably hanging off. I looked up into the once-shining green paint on the tender. A distorted, opaque reflection stared back at me. I reached up and ran my fingertips along the deep lacerations, feeling every dent and blemish under the paint.

"I-Is it badly scratched?"

A hoarse voice spoke from somewhere towards the front of the locomotive; I whipped my hand away like a child who'd been sneaking chocolate from the pantry. At this point I had no idea who had spoken – we'd been so early that only a few of the many staff had been in attendance – the few who'd been here to receive this engine, no doubt.

I looked around to see where the voice had come from. Weirdly enough, there wasn't another soul near me; it seemed I was alone. I moved cautiously along the side of the engine; although it wasn't a living creature, I felt sad to see it in such a sorry state. There was already some apparatus set up to begin work on this new project; I climbed up a set of steps to the running board to get a closer look at the damaged boiler.

The boiler was cold – the locomotive was in too bad a condition to travel under it's own steam – and, again feeling full of sympathy, I very softly laid a hand against the crippled boiler plates, wishing I had more experience with steam engines so I could help to repair this poor, battered machine.

"It's badly scratched there, also?"

The same quiet voice spoke. It was male, though quite soft and gentle sounding. I didn't remove my hand this time, though momentarily I froze to the spot. I suddenly had a very good idea as to why everyone was so excited about this engine, and why Sodor had been talked about so reverently.

I wandered along to the front of the engine. I was surprised at myself, even – if I'd imagined myself in a scenario like this (which would be impossible as frankly I have no imagination) my imagined reaction would have involved retreating as quickly as possible, and possibly booking myself in with some kind of psychiatrist, _because there was no way that steam locomotives could talk_. I worked alongside them (although not actually _with_ them) for most afternoons of the week, and since childhood they'd been a huge part of my life; but not once had I ever seen one that had any kind of consciousness.

I reached the edge of the running board, just above the twisted, buckled buffer beam, wondering what on earth I would find waiting for me. I was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable; I hadn't even bothered to answer this poor creature yet (if, indeed it was 'he' who had spoken in the first place) and I felt a bit like a little girl who'd cheeked her grandfather.

I had half-expected to see one of the staff members I knew – perhaps even my own father, he was a terrible one for practical jokes – lurking on the ground by the buffers, but as I peered from the side of the smokebox I could see there wasn't another human soul anywhere.

I was almost afraid, daft as it sounds, to glance to my left and actually look at the front of the engine. Eventually, very slowly, I looked across.

Big, dark eyes met mine. Dark eyes set in an ashen face that looked exhausted and troubled, like those of someone who had been seriously ill for a considerable amount of time, and who just wanted to rest.

I looked at that face for a moment; and it suddenly didn't matter at all that this creature was a 'machine' that was built to do hard work, not for people to look on with affection – I felt so sorry and full of compassion that I reached out and gently touched his pale cheek with my still-cold hand. The engine closed his eyes and gave a very slight smile at whatever small comfort this instinctive gesture of mine had given him.

I felt almost angry on his behalf. Who on earth had decided to invent living metal? To invent breathing, conscious machinery, who now - due to some unknown thief who stole incorrect plans – had to suffer illness and misery for the rest of his life? What kind of selfish act was that? It was well-known amongst us staff that even engines who had entire rebuilds still suffered life-long technical problems – they never ran as well as those which had been originally well-built or as well as they had before the crash or whatever problems had sent them to us in the first place.1

I sank into a sitting position at the edge of the running board, my feet only just touching the bufferbeam below where the lamp iron should have been, and turned to face this living, breathing steam engine. His eyes were half-shut; but the dark pupils were watching me as I turned to look up at him and managed to finally ask him the question burning in my mind.

"What happened to you?"

A/N: 1: I know this is rubbish – I just couldn't resist a bit of the ole angst ;p Should I even bother to post any more?


	2. Part II: Time To Go Home

A/N: Thank you for the kind, lovely reviews. They were completely unexpected. :D Just a quick reminder that I am following the dates in _Sodor: Reading Between The Lines_, which places Henry's rebuild in 1951. Though this is probably a misprint, I used this dateline just for my own preferences :)

Part II: Time To Go Home

Christmas came and went; the freezing winter weather slowly melted into spring. Finally my father and I were travelling to work in daylight again. This was my final year of schooling, and obviously upon my leaving I was intending to take an apprenticeship at the railway works1 to live my dream and work alongside my father.1

Henry the Green Engine was still with us at Crewe Works – though he was almost finished now, and was expected to be ready to return home to the Island Of Sodor by the end of the following week.

Henry was a far sicker engine than any of the workers at Crewe had expected; they'd been told the details about the apparent damage caused by his accident with the Flying Kipper (I myself had been told a firsthand account of the events by the engine himself) but had uncovered many other problems along the way.

The main cause for concern was actually nothing to do with the accident – the workmen were more worried about the Henry's breathing difficulties due to that blasted design fault of such a poor-sized firebox. There was a very worrying period for everyone when it was suggested that Henry still might have to be scrapped anyway – it would be cheaper and more economical, they said, to simply start from scratch and build the Fat Controller (the director of Sodor's railways) a brand spanking new engine. This was met by such protest from everyone at the works that the idea was quickly scratched – we were all far too fond of Henry already to even think of doing such a thing.

They – the main people in charge of the project, that is – decided eventually to completely remodel Henry into a proper Stanier Class 5 – one of the most successful mixed traffic engines ever to come out of Crewe.

Time to say goodbye and good luck was drawing nearer – Henry was undergoing final tests and checks to ensure everything was going according to plan. It had been a strange, albeit rather delightful experience to watch the engine blossom under the skilled hands of the workmen. He had arrived a poorly creature with a rather bleak outlook on life; but as the months had passed things had only got better once the initial plan of action had been got under way.

The workmen had fixed all the exterior problems and cosmetic damage, which had made Henry look better physically, but he only really began to improve in himself when the new firebox had been completed. It was all a bit magical (as if a living steam engine hadn't been magic enough for one lifetime) when he was in steam for the first time; colour flooded into his face, his eyes shone with a new-found sense of well-being. I had lingered around all day to see the workers fire him up; I must have brought the staff endless hot drinks and made countless excuses to be in the area when the event actually took place. Henry had already cottoned on to what I was up to; and whenever I looked across to him he winked at me almost cheekily.

We had become good friends; this was true of almost everyone who had worked on Henry and had spared the time to talk to him. After the initial surprise when he had spoken to me on that very first morning many months ago, we'd actually got on like a house on fire – like I'd been chatting to steam engines all my life.

My father had watched me with interest; and one night I asked him why he'd never told me about the Island Of Sodor before – everyone else seemed to know all about it. His face coloured a bit and he thought it over before speaking.

"I didn't even believe it existed myself," he explained simply. "Other people had told me things about it, even that they had visited – but I always was a bit cynical. I mean, talking steam engines? I've worked with them since I left school; to my mind it seemed like a joke. If it were true, wouldn't all locomotives be living creatures?"

He got up from our old wooden kitchen table and patted me on the shoulder as he went to leave the room.

"It's not all good," he added quietly. "At least with our regular engines we don't get too attached – if one of our 'normal' engines is involved in an accident or suffers irreparable damage; or even if their working lives are over due to wear and tear…we can send them for scrap or re-use old parts without feeling as though we've…" his voice tailed off.

I knew exactly what he meant; I'd never given a thought to the engines at our works who we'd been unable to repair and had to be sent for scrap – the most that had ever crossed my mind was something like, "Oh dear, that's a shame." Maybe it was a good thing that not all steam engines were conscious beings. It would feel like committing murder every time something went irreversibly wrong.

My father was still standing by the kitchen door as I ran all this through my head. He grinned at me.

"Ellie; I told you back in December not to get too attached to Henry; I hope you were listening."

I nodded forcefully, but I think he knew I was lying. Even back in December it had been way too late – I was already attached to Henry.

The day that Henry was due to go home arrived much too quickly; all checks and tests had been completed, as well as any unfinished little jobs (mostly cosmetic) that hadn't been done before. When there was a lull in the hustle of activity – I think it might have been during the dinner hour – I forfeited my meal and made my way to the green engine to finally say goodbye.

My pace slowed down greatly as I approached the back of the bright green Fowler tender. Everyone had to admit Henry looked splendid; he'd been given a belpaire firebox and a top-feed. All the superficial problems had been sorted out – he was practically unrecognizable from the engine that had come to us all those months ago.

I climbed up onto his frame at the side, feeling more than a little déjà vu. I touched the gleaming paint on the boiler; they had only lit his fire very recently to get him ready to return home (he would be going under his own steam this time) and he was barely warm yet.

"Don't burn yourself, Ellie."

The familiar voice seemed to vibrate against the metal, and I smiled to myself. I didn't quite know how it was that Henry knew who was touching him, giving that an engines' peripheral vision is very limited. I skittered down to the front of his frames as I now had many times before, to sit on the edge for our last chat.

"Are you looking forward to going home?"

"Yes. It seems I have been here for ever such a long time; it will be nice to have a good run."

"It's been lovely having you here. I…I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thank you."

He grinned at me – an expression I didn't think I'd see cross his face when I first met him. There were plenty of unspoken words between us at that point, but I could already feel myself going red in the face, and I felt I'd said enough. I patted the side of his smokebox.

"Good luck, Henry. Stay well."

"I'll try. Thank you, my dear."

Those were last words we said to each other – save for a goodbye whistle – before Henry went home for good.

A/N: 1 Yes, women were employed at Crewe Railway Works in the 1950's; I did look it up just be sure :D I found this chapter much harder to write. I didn't want it to turn into a teen-angsty, Mary-Sue style pile of mush that would make me cringe when I re-read it, so I tried to keep it short and sweet. Constructive critiscm is always welcome. A very short epilogue to follow.


	3. Part III: Epilogue

Final Part: Epilogue

Work at Crewe continued as usual after that; we didn't have any more visitors from the Island of Sodor, but Sir Topham Hatt did send us a letter of his appreciation about Henry. We often had people at the Works who'd visited the Island – some of them even worked there or had worked there in the past; and it was from these people that we gleaned bits of information about Henry and how things were going for him back at home.

It seemed that Sodor was a bit of a time capsule for steam engines; at Crewe we were beginning to notice as the years passed that more and more of the new diesel engines were coming into us until they began to outnumber the steam engines. It was a sad day for everyone in 1968 when the final steam hauled passenger service ran on British Railways; although it wouldn't be until the 1980's that steam would disappear forever, we could all see it coming.

Whenever we questioned anyone about Sodor though, the answer remained constant; that although Sir Topham Hatt had indeed brought in some diesel locomotives to help with the workload on the Island, there was absolutely no sign of steam diminishing completely over there.

My father began to lose interest in his work as dieselization came into operation; he had always been into the job for his love of steam, and his enthusiasm was disappearing rapidly as the years went on and less and less steam engines came to us for work.

Before those sad times, however, it was business as usual for us, and I often found myself thinking about Henry. I wondered if he'd even remember me now, it'd been several years since I'd last seen him. Life goes by so quickly; one minute you're seventeen with the world at your feet, then seemingly in an instant you're staring thirty in the face, even though you were sure it was going to be centuries before you were that 'old'.

I was almost twenty-seven by then, and though I looked back on the days when a living steam engine from the Island Of Sodor had stayed with us when I was nothing more than an odd-job girl with fondness, sometimes I felt as though maybe it hadn't even existed; it was like a distant dream rather than a reality. I waited eagerly to see if any of the other engines we would lend our services to would be alive like Henry; but none of them ever were.

In case you were interested, I would eventually see Henry again - albeit not for almost twenty years from the day he left – but that is irrelevant to this story, and now is not the time nor the place to tell about that; and I'm sure you don't want to hear a middle-aged woman (bit past middle aged by now) going on and on forever about times long past.

A/N: I hope again this wasn't too sucky – I don't know very much about life at Crewe and only a basic knowledge about the end of steam, so I hope I didn't make anybody mad with any inaccuracies I may have included! :) Thank you all for the lovely reviews.


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